The Common Law. Chambers Robert William

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      "Yes, I do."

      "No, you don't. You think you do—"

      "I do, I do, Louis! She's the sweetest, finest, most generous, most suitable—"

      "Sure," he said, hastily, "she's all that except 'suitable'—and she isn't that, and I'm not, either. For the love of Mike, Lily, let me go on admiring her, even loving her in a perfectly harmless—"

      "It isn't harmless to caress a girl—"

      "Why—you can't call it caressing—"

      "What do you call it?"

      "Nothing. We've always been on an intimate footing. She's perfectly unembarrassed about—whatever impulsive—er—fugitive impulses—"

      "You do kiss her!"

      "Seldom—very seldom. At moments the conditions happen accidentally to—suggest—some slight demonstration—of a very warm friendship—"

      "You positively sicken me! Do you think a nice girl is going to let a man paw her if she doesn't consider him pledged to her?"

      "I don't think anything about it. Nice girls have done madder things than their eulogists admit. As a plain matter of fact you can't tell what anybody nice is going to do under theoretical circumstances. And the nicer they are the bigger the gamble—particularly if they're endowed with brains—"

      "That's cynicism. You seem to be developing several streaks—"

      "Polite blinking of facts never changes them. Conforming to conventional and accepted theories never yet appealed to intelligence. I'm not going to be dishonest with myself; that's one of the streaks I've developed. You ask me if I love Stephanie enough to marry her, and I say I don't. What's the good of blinking it? I don't love anybody enough to marry 'em; but I like a number of girls well enough to spoon with them."

      "That is disgusting!"

      "No, it isn't," he said, with smiling weariness; "it's the unvarnished truth about the average man. Why wink at it? The average man can like a lot of girls enough to spoon and sentimentalise with them. It's the pure accident of circumstance and environment that chooses for him the one he marries. There are myriads of others in the world with whom, under proper circumstances and environment, he'd have been just as happy—often happier. Choice is a mystery, constancy a gamble, discontent the one best bet. It isn't pleasant; it isn't nice fiction and delightful romance; it isn't poetry or precept as it is popularly inculcated; it's the brutal truth about the average man…. And I'm going to find Stephanie. Have you any objection?"

      "Louis—I'm terribly disappointed in you—"

      "I'm disappointed, too. Until you spoke to me so plainly a few minutes ago I never clearly understood that I couldn't marry Stephanie. When I thought of it at all it seemed a vague and shadowy something, too far away to be really impending—threatening—like death—"

      "Oh!" cried his sister in revolt. "I shall make it my business to see that Stephanie understands you thoroughly before this goes any farther—"

      "I wish to heaven you would," he said, so heartily that his sister, exasperated, turned her back and marched away to the nursery.

      When he went out to the tennis court he found Stephanie idly batting the balls across the net with Cameron, who, being dummy, had strolled down to gibe at her—a pastime both enjoyed:

      "Here comes your Alonzo, fair lady—lightly skipping o'er the green—yes, yes—wearing the panties of his brother-in-law!" He fell into an admiring attitude and contemplated Neville with a simper, his ruddy, prematurely bald head cocked on one side:

      "Oh, girls! Ain't he just grand!" he exclaimed. "Honest, Stephanie, your young man has me in the ditch with two blow-outs and the gas afire!"

      "Get out of this court," said Neville, hurling a ball at him.

      "Isn't he the jealous old thing!" cried Cameron, flouncing away with an affectation of feminine indignation. And presently the tennis balls began to fly, and the little jets of white dust floated away on the June breeze.

      They were very evenly matched; they always had been, never asking odds or offering handicaps in anything. It had always been so; at the traps she could break as many clay birds as he could; she rode as well, drove as well; their averages usually balanced. From the beginning—even as children—it had been always give and take and no favour.

      And so it was now; sets were even; it was a matter of service.

      Luncheon interrupted a drawn game; Stephanie, flushed, smiling, came around to his side of the net to join him on the way to the house:

      "How do you keep up your game, Louis? Or do I never improve? It's curious, isn't it, that we are always deadlocked."

      Bare-armed, bright hair in charming disorder, she swung along beside him with that quick, buoyant step so characteristic of a spirit ever undaunted, saluting the others on the terrace with high-lifted racquet.

      "Nobody won," she said. "Come on, Alice, if you're going to scrub before luncheon. Thank you, Louis; I've had a splendid game—" She stretched out a frank hand to him, going, and the tips of her fingers just brushed his.

      His sister gave him a tragic look, which he ignored, and a little later luncheon was on and Cameron garrulous, and Querida his own gentle, expressive, fascinating self, devotedly receptive to any woman who was inclined to talk to him or to listen.

      That evening Neville said to his sister: "There's a train at midnight; I don't think I'll stay over—"

      "Why?"

      "I want to be in town early."

      "Why?"

      "The early light is the best."

      "I thought you'd stopped painting for a while."

      "I have, practically. There's one thing I keep on with, in a desultory sort of way—"

      "What is it?"

      "Oh, nothing of importance—" he hesitated—"that Is, it may be important. I can't be sure, yet."

      "Will you tell me what it is?"

      "Why, yes. It's a portrait—a study—"

      "Of whom, dear?"

      "Oh, of nobody you know—"

      "Is it a portrait of Valerie West?"

      "Yes," he said, carelessly.

      There was a silence; in the starlight his shadowy face was not clearly visible to his sister.

      "Are you leaving just to continue that portrait?"

      "Yes. I'm interested in it."

      "Don't go," she said, in a low voice.

      "Don't be silly," he returned shortly.

      "Dear, I am not silly, but I suspect you are beginning to be. And over a model!"

      "Lily, you little idiot," he laughed, СКАЧАТЬ